I don’t carry many regrets in life, but one has lingered over the years: never finding the courage when I was younger to go off on my own and study abroad. It always felt like a dream that belonged to someone braver than me. But with age comes courage and the wisdom to know that life is short, and that the biggest obstacle holding us back from reaching our dreams is ourselves. I knew it was time for me to get focused on what those dreams were; I just wasn't sure what that looked like, and one thing I know for certain is that if you can't see where you're heading, it's close to impossible to get there. So, I began the exploration by making small shifts, swapping late-night scrolling for meditation, trading yoga classes for mountain biking and hours spent in the garden, and I made a habit of rising early to tune my body to its natural rhythms. Those changes created space, and right on cue, the universe cracked open a door. My childhood best friend, Karen, told me she was heading to San Sebastián for a Spanish immersion program. Without overthinking, and without knowing how I’d make it work financially, I jumped in and booked a ticket with miles to go with her.
No One Likes Being a Beginner
Before leaving, I resumed learning Spanish with the Pimsleur app, studying at every opportune moment; while driving, gardening, cooking, filling the empty space with lessons. I’d used the app before and loved how learning a new language cracked open a world of culture and new friends. I had to stop after nine months of obsessive learning after turning onto the wrong side of Highway 82 (“Killer 82”) and thus I had to start from the beginning when I resumed, procrastinating for a month before starting again. That lost month cost me dearly.
Getting to San Sebastián
The day we traveled from Bilbao, we got lucky: a bus strike was underway to improve working conditions and earlier retirement as well as better pay. By chance we got to the bus station just minutes before the very last bus left for San Sebastián. Just over an hour later, we rolled into a walkable city where the bus station sits right on the Urumea River. Karen and I split off to our separate accommodations.
When deciding whether to live with a host family like Karen or in an apartment with roommates, I imagined long dinners in a lively household with children and dogs. But I barely knew the language and felt I needed more freedom to come and go without the awkwardness of trying to understand or express myself. I opted to live in an apartment with roommates, picturing a place overlooking cobbled streets near the sea where I’d write in cafés by day and dance with locals by night. In the end, although the vision was off, it was the right call.
My apartment assigned to me by the school was in Gros, San Sebastián’s surf neighborhood, where barefoot surfers wandered the streets with boards tucked under their arms, and wetsuits peeled to their waists. It reminded me of biking home in ski boots after a powder day back in Aspen, only with less clothing. Karen’s apartment with the "family", on the other hand, was actually a "hausfrau" who lived alone in a "teensie" apartment and who clearly needed to rent out her rooms for money. Karen shared a bathroom with a male Japanese student and had to keep her windows closed lest the three cats who slept on her face at night, got out. It certainly wasn’t what either of us had imagined.
First Mishaps
Dragging my oversized suitcase through the heat, I arrived at my apartment drenched in sweat only to discover I’d misunderstood the instructions. My keys were back at the train station from whence I had come. Mortified, I ducked into the nearest café, where I humbly asked a man speaking English to translate for me and ask if the barista would stash my bag while I retraced my steps. My translator wasn't the friendliest, and begrudgingly asked for me. It was a humbling first lesson in navigating a new city.
Living Like a Local in Gros
Finally, I returned to enter my new nondescript apartment complex with trash bins lined out front. I got in the little European elevator, after figuring out how to use it, and prayed I didn't get stuck in my ascent to the third floor. The apartment was large and although I was a bit shocked to find that my roommates were both men, in the end I considered myself lucky to have such a great place with wonderful gentlemen as roommates. I would have missed so much had I chosen to live by myself in an apartment.
My room was on the street side and had its own living room and balcony, which excited me until I learned that it was a negative, not a positive. People in Gros never seemed to sleep and our street seemed to be the gathering spot for extended families and their children, as well as young jovial partiers spilling out of bars until the wee hours of dawn.
The sweet wifi cafés I had pictured did not exist and I never did make it to a nightclub, though my childhood memories of our father dragging us to dance at the disco after dinner came rushing back. As I drifted in and out of sleep I wished I had the courage and the energy to head out to the streets and join the crowds to practice my Spanish. Instead, my lack of vocabulary stopped me and so I would drift into sleep.
Karen, on the other hand, breezed through conversations. Not much more fluent than I, she has a knack for languages and thus the confidence to speak without perfection. Watching her made me question my own rigidity. Why did I hold back when being able to have a conversation was more important than being fluent? Lots of realizations about myself started to shine through on this trip. Do I over analyze? Is this how I block myself?
Each morning, I walked 30 minutes to my language school alongside sleepy fathers and grandparents attentively listening to stories as they ushered their children to camp. I wandered past neo-Gothic cathedrals and cafés selling “café para llevar” from side windows. No, I wasn’t Emily in Paris, but I quickly assimilated to life in San Sebastián, even if the words rolled clumsily off my tongue.
Pintxos
On Thursdays, Gros came alive for PintxoPote, where €4 bought a drink and a bite. Healthy? Hardly. But watching elegant older women stroll the streets, I doubted they survived on chips and fried food.
Weekend Escapes
Class was entirely in Spanish, and I was both the oldest and the weakest. When class was out, we'd go hiking; straight up from Gros on the Camino de Santiago's Northern route (Camino del Norte) to Pasaia, a Basque coastal town, and from Getaria to Zarautz past vineyards tumbling into coastlines and the Atlantic stretched wide. We went to Guéthary and ferried to Hondarribia for seafood lunches, and we bussed to St. Jean de Luz in France for Bastille Day fireworks and festivals where we feasted on sardines, danced in the streets, and soaked up the culture.
Classes were taught exclusively in Spanish and ran for two weeks, Monday through Friday, from 9:30 a.m. to 1 p.m. with a short break at 11. On the first day it was slightly overwhelming as my teacher, Natalie Cardiello (whom we all adored), greeted us with a string of sentences that to the Virgin ear sounded like “babba kabba sabba dabba…baile!” I loved the words like Dabadaba (a music venue) and BlaBlaCar (rideshare for bus travel), and so badly wanted them to roll off my tongue too but I just couldn't put whole sentences together. Being both the oldest in the class and the weakest in Spanish, I had to remind myself that this was what I signed up for, to be anonymous, to be challenged, but it didn't mean that I had to like it.
Finding My Voice Again
By the second week of classes, I understood almost every word my teacher spoke and my brain was switched on, as was my curiosity. I was also ready to get back home and practice what I had learned, and return to my life filled with friends and hungry boys ready for some good mommy cooking, the jet lag had me waking up at 2:30 a.m. and using that time to cook tortilla española for them.
This trip turned out to be a return to adventure and a powerful reminder that we’re never too old to shift gears, to learn something new, and to revive. I arrived in Spain feeling like I was slowly disappearing into the background of my home town and wanting a new identity. I came home invigorated, more awake to my surroundings and happy to gain my identity back. It wasn't that I was disappearing into the background, it was that I had lost my curiosity and joie de vivre.
Now as the days slowly pass I begin to process my trip and understand the impact it had on me, like a gentle current that continues to ripple through everything I observe and feel. There’s something uniquely beautiful about mountain living, about a small town where young adults hug you with familiarity, remembering you from years ago when you fed them sandwiches and looked out for them. I no longer feel as if I'm fading into the woodwork but rather I'm more inspired than ever to connect deeply with the people around me. I’m also ready to return to sharing my everyday adventures, because, in truth, they’re just as revealing and meaningful as the ones that happen oceans away. Whether far from home or right here in the valley, the real gift is in staying curious and open to it all.
